For What They Have Lost
by Sth10
Summary: 10 years on and life is very different for the Hardy brothers. Frank is a respected NYPD detective. Joe is a club doorman with a wild lifestyle and a troubled past. Is brotherhood strong enough to hold them together or have they drifted too far apart?
1. Default Chapter

**A/N - **First Hardy Boys fic but have been writing fan fiction for more years than I care to remember. Let me know what you think!

10 years on and life is very different for the Hardy brothers. Frank is an Ivy League graduate and respected NYPD detective with a young son. Joe is a club doorman with a wild lifestyle and a troubled past. Is brotherhood strong enough to hold them together, or have they drifted too far apart?  
  
FOR WHAT THEY HAVE LOST  
  
He stepped out onto the field, his hard muscled body strong and toned under the black shirt of the LA Raiders. His name was plastered in big white letters across his back. Hardy, number 12. The stadium was packed, tens of thousands of fans chanting his name.  
  
Joe. Joe. Joe.  
  
He was the star, the one everyone watched. He was the big, devastatingly attractive wide receiver that outshone even the quarterback. All-State, All-American, a promised place on that season's NFL All-Stars. Joe Hardy, aged just eighteen, had taken the NFL by storm when he shot to fame as the Raiders' teenage sensation. Nearly eight years later, with highly successful spells with the Cowboys and the Patriots under his belt, he had returned to the team that had made him great.  
  
The game passed in a blur. Joe was on fire. Four touchdowns in the first half, he was untouchable, strong, fast and agile, sidestepping tackles and throwing off defenders. Anyone could see why he was ranked in the top twenty list of NFL players. His position as the fifth highest scorer in the Western Conference that season was taken for granted.  
  
In the first down of the second half, Joe sprinted behind the quarterback for a subtle pass. He was away up the field before the defence even realised. Joe felt like he was flying. Nothing could stop him.  
  
Nothing until two linebackers slammed into him together, twisting his body and crushing him against the ground. He felt his right knee take the brunt of the fall...  
  
"Shit!"  
  
Joe Hardy jerked upright in bed, suddenly wide-awake and breathing hard. Rivers of sweat ran down the sculpted muscles of his golden-brown torso and he could feel himself shaking. It was a dream he'd had so many times before, but he was always helpless to control his reactions.  
  
Pushing back his sweat-damped blond hair, now almost long enough to touch his collar, he reached across and grabbed his cigarettes. He lit one with a shaking hand, inhaling the nicotine and holding it deep in his lungs. Slowly, he felt his pounding heart rate slow.  
  
Nearly a year on from that fateful day and he still had nightmares about the devastating tackle that had torn his knee apart. The surgical scars, the marks that told the story of the doctors' struggle to save his career, were fading now, but the mental ones remained raw and painful. The attempts had failed. At the age of twenty-five, Joe had been told he would never play pro football again.  
  
He took another drag on the Marlboro, leaning back against the pillows in the king size bed he was rarely alone in. That night, however, there was no beautiful young woman lying beside him for once. He was alone, a thing he hated to be.  
  
Back then he had never been alone. His life had been one long wild party, surrounded by a huge, constant circle of friends with just as much money and success as Joe himself. Today, his life was still a wild party, but it was one he could no longer enjoy in the way he once had. Today, he partied to forget, pretend that his young life hadn't been torn apart. It didn't work.  
  
Joe stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and swung his legs out of bed. Wandering through the open plan apartment in the highly desirable West LA neighbourhood Brentwood, his home ever since re-signing with the Raiders, the rent still paid for by the little money he had left, he pulled a beer from the refrigerator.  
  
In the living room, he sat on the couch in just his boxer shorts, drinking the Bud in long gulps. The scrapbook sat on the glass coffee table, as it often did. Painful thought it was, Joe liked to look back on the past, remember the time when he had been a god to football fans. He opened the front cover and found himself staring up from the front cover of a magazine.  
  
He was shirtless, wearing a pair of tight-fitting stonewashed jeans. His toned, muscular torso gleamed bronze and a lock of golden blond hair fell seductively over the ocean blue eyes. His ice-melting smile was directed straight at the camera. It had been the magazine's best-selling issue of all time.  
  
Joe had been more than a football stud. He had been a star, Hollywood A- list. Every month he had done model shoots for countless magazines from high-society glossies to NFL Weekly. He had done TV appearances, catwalk modelling, numerous commercials and advertising for a wide range of products. He had partied at LA's most exclusive clubs with the biggest names in Hollywood. Everyone had known the name of Joe Hardy, star footballer and hot property.  
  
Now, all those people had forgotten about him. Only the die-hard Raiders fans remembered his name. They still saluted him if he ever made a rare return visit to the stadium. No one else knew who he was anymore. He was nobody, just another washed-up jock with an attractive face and a good body. One of many. He was no longer something special.  
  
Football had been Joe Hardy's life. Now it was over, he had nothing to fall back on. He had refused to go to college; had always hated school, and the seduction of the NFL clubs begging him to sign for them in his senior year had won him over. He had only just scraped through high school, graduating at the bottom of his class. He hadn't cared. He had football and that was all that mattered to him.  
  
He had never dreamt he would lose it.  
  
X X X  
  
In New York City, in his modest apartment in Brooklyn Park, Frank was also awake but for a different reason to the younger brother he hadn't spoken to for months. He was getting ready to go to work, begin the early morning shift at Brooklyn Central police station, where he had been a detective sergeant on homicide for nearly two years.  
  
Knotting his tie in the mirror, his gaze fell, as usual, on the two framed photographs next to his bed. The first showed a young boy the spitting image of Frank, same dark hair and chocolate brown eyes. His son Bailey, now aged seven, beamed into the camera. Frank couldn't help but smile as he looked at the picture. He adored his son, just as Bailey worshipped the ground his dad walked on. They didn't spend as much time together as they would have liked, just two weekends a month, but they made the most of them.  
  
Bailey's mother had been a brief flame of Frank's during his senior year of college, an employee at a downtown bar the students had frequented. She had refused to marry or live with Frank after falling pregnant during a drunken night. She hadn't even been keen for him to know his son but, even after graduation, Frank had been determined to take his responsibilities in Bailey's life and she had begrudgingly conceded. Frank Hardy had never been the type to walk away from his mistakes and pretend they hadn't happened. Besides, he had quickly realised Bailey wasn't a mistake. He was a gift.  
  
His eyes drifted to the second photo and his smile faded as it always did. The second was of Joe, aged twenty, in full football uniform the day he had been named the NFL's young player of the season. Frank had been so proud of his kid brother that day, but he had still felt the deep sense of unease that had been inside of him ever since Joe had signed for the pros.  
  
Frank had always worried that football would shatter Joe's life. He had known Joe's outstanding ability and extrovert personality would make him a star loved by all, just as he had known Joe would thrive under the pressure and exhilaration of pro football. But he had also been aware that if things ever went wrong, his kid brother would not be able to handle it. Joe needed football like other people needed love and if he ever lost it; he would fall apart. It had broken Frank's heart to be proved right a year ago.  
  
Joe had been too young for fame and fortune, just as he had been too young to have his life ripped to shreds. He had been blinded by the allure of fame and money, the promise of certain adulation. It was the only thing he knew, what he lived for. When that was so cruelly snatched away from him, he had nothing left to fall back on. No education, no future, not even any money.  
  
It hurt Frank so much to know what his little brother had become. He hid it behind a wild personality and a fast-living lifestyle, but beneath the show, Joe had become a shadow of his former self. And while Frank had gone from strength to strength in his life and career, Joe had only lost more of himself each month that went by in a sea of alcohol, parties and women. It had been so long since Frank he seen him last that he couldn't help but wonder if Joe had managed to retain the most important thing. Self respect.  
  
In his heart, he didn't think so. Joe was too far-gone for that. He was on a downward spiral to nowhere. Worst of all, he didn't want to be saved from it.  
  
X X X  
  
Joe had fallen asleep again after several cigarettes and had woken to find himself late for work. He'd floored his Corvette C5 across to Sunset Boulevard. Not so long ago he'd been cruising around in a Porsche 911, but that had gone towards paying off numerous debts. The Corvette had been a gift from his old team-mates.  
  
Joe had a casual job at Roxy's, a strip joint at the seedier end of the Boulevard. He stood guard on the door, taking the entry fees, dealing with troublemakers and keeping an eye on the street prostitutes that paid the club's owner for the right to tout on the sidewalk outside the club. He got paid a lousy $6 an hour. He couldn't bear to remember that once he had picked up $650,000 a year.  
  
He stood silently by the door, dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a black bomber jacket, tired eyes shielded by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The customers slunk warily past him, knowing Joe didn't take any bullshit from them. They were a pathetic bunch. Some were typical perverts with long jackets and dirty hair, but others were respectable businessmen from Bel Air with gold Rolexes and Mercedes. Just proved diversity was huge in LA, no matter where you were or what you were doing.  
  
Joe himself has spent many a night in Roxy's. All the girls knew him and he was allowed to take his pick. He didn't do every night, preferring to check out the upmarket bars back in West LA for a classier type of woman but sometimes he relented. He usually went for the new ones. They were less bitter about life and more likely to be up for a simple night of hassle-free fun. But even when drunk out of his mind, Joe made sure he used a condom with the Roxy girls. You never knew what disease-ridden creeps they slept with in the line of duty.  
  
He liked the girls. They were all mouthy, street smart and some had drug or alcohol problems, but most had young families to support, the partners having walked out or died or gotten arrested. In a way, Joe admired them. Life had dealt them just as tough a deal as it had him, but they had picked themselves up and got on with things. They hadn't lain down and given up. They worked hard in horrible conditions to feed their kids and pay the rent. Joe knew many of those girls were mentally stronger than him, and that hurt.  
  
"Hey, Joe, how you doin' today?" One of the street girls, a Hispanic woman a lot younger than him, sashayed up to him, nearly falling off her stiletto heels.  
  
"Hey, Rosita." He only knew her street name.  
  
"You have a good night?"  
  
"Yeah, not bad."  
  
"Plenty of drinking, right?"  
  
"Why change the habit?"  
  
"Hey, I got a fresh bag if you want some." She opened her purse to reveal a small, clear plastic packet of white powder.  
  
Joe shook his head. "Not right now."  
  
"That's not like you. You got any dope?"  
  
"Nope. I'm right out."  
  
"I can get you some."  
  
"For a price, right? Thanks but I can sort myself out."  
  
"Suit yourself."  
  
She patted her hair and smiled. She had lipstick on her teeth that somehow endeared her to Joe. She couldn't have been more than seventeen. Just a kid, like he had been when he'd be catapulted into the limelight. Why hadn't Rosita got that sort of break? Joe liked talking to her. She made him see that he was fortunate to at least have had the chances he'd had. She'd never had anything to even lose.  
  
"Know what, Joe?" she asked.  
  
"I guess you're gonna tell me."  
  
"I went to church last night?"  
  
Joe laughed. "You? Go to church?"  
  
"Yeah, went to confession."  
  
"Bet that took hours."  
  
"Well, I only confessed the little things. If I'd gone into detail, I guess the priest woulda kicked me outta the box."  
  
Joe's smile faded. "My parents used to take me and my brother to church when we were kids. They let us make up our own minds about it when we started high school. Frank still goes occasionally, but I never went back."  
  
"You should. It chills you out."  
  
"I thought coke chilled you out."  
  
"I'm for real, Joe. Church lets you escape reality for a while."  
  
"Reality ain't so bad."  
  
"Bullshit, man. You know how bad it is."  
  
Joe shrugged. "My church days are long gone, Ros. I don't care about that sorta thing anymore."  
  
"You care about the wrong things, Joe Hardy. We all do."  
  
"So we're even, right? Quit bugging me about goddam church already."  
  
"If that's what you want. See you later?"  
  
"You never know." He gave her a quick smile. "Stay safe, OK?"  
  
"I'll do my best."  
  
"You just shout if you need me."  
  
"You're a sweet guy, Joey."  
  
"Don't go spreading that around. I got myself a reputation as a tough guy."  
  
"There's more to you than big muscles and a hard punch."  
  
"That's what I keep trying to tell everyone."  
  
The next second Rosita had gone, hurrying towards the car that had just pulled up to the sidewalk. Joe watched shrewdly as she climbed into the passenger seat, automatically noting the number. His teenage years had stood him good stead when it came to security measures.  
  
"Well, if it isn't Quarterback Jock," a male voice said behind him.  
  
Joe turned sharply to find two men in jeans and leather jackets standing behind him. His hard face relaxed into a grin and he slapped palms with Rick McDonald and Jake Delaney, detectives of LAPD's Vice Squad and close friends of Joe's for several years.  
  
"I was a wide receiver, not a damn quarterback."  
  
"Hey, we know your profile. There ain't a guy in the state who doesn't."  
  
"What you guys here for?" Joe asked  
  
Roxy's never got busted. The owner had most of the LAPD who could cause him trouble in his back pocket, being well paid to ignore any illegal activity. Rick and Jake were no different. Joe had got to know them through delivering their wage packets and the three had looked out for each other ever since. Joe introduced them to the hot girls he partied with and the two cops made sure he never got pulled in when he frequently got a little out of control.  
  
"Pay day, Joey boy," Rick said. "Up for a party tonight?"  
  
"You know it, man."  
  
"All right! Hey, we'll go check out the Viper. You can get us in."  
  
"Sounds good to me." Joe slapped palms with them again. "Meet you at the usual place."  
  
"Sure. We'll bring a packet of snow with us."  
  
"If you want."  
  
The two cops sauntered inside the dilapidated building. Joe sighed softly and returned to watching the street girls.


	2. Worlds Apart

A/N – OK, I'm sorry to anyone coming here looking for a typical HB excursion but you're not gonna get one. This is a purely character- study/relationship/family based fic and will not involve any mysteries or any of the stuff you'd get in the books. Nor does it involve Nancy, Callie, Vanessa or Iola because I don't like any of them. I may bring back Biff and Chet later. So if that's not your thing or you can't handle the fact characters change, turn back now.  
  
CHAPTER 2 – WORLDS APART  
  
Joe woke to find himself in a strange apartment, his head pounding, his mouth bone dry and tasting of vomit. He was lying on a sofa bed, naked and barely covered by a threadbare sheet. Beside him lay a young woman he didn't recognise.  
  
"Hey." He nudged her none-too-subtly. "Who the hell are you?"  
  
"Kala. At least I know how you are."  
  
Joe pushed his tousled hair from his eyes but his vision was so blurred it didn't make much difference. "I'm really happy for you."  
  
"Man, you were out of it last night. You were so drunk I thought you were gonna pass out before we finished the business."  
  
"No danger of that," he mumbled. "I always finish what I start."  
  
"I noticed that includes alcohol." She indicated to the numerous empty bottles and cans lying around the room. "You and your friends drank me dry."  
  
For the first time, Joe noticed Rick and Jake were also in the room. Rick was passed out in an armchair, a sleeping young woman on his lap. Jake was slumped in the corner, still loosely holding a can of beer.  
  
"Um, why aren't we in the bedroom?" Joe asked.  
  
"Because you couldn't walk that far, babe. I've no idea how I dragged you up the stairs."  
  
Joe sat upright, groaning at the hammer in his head. "Yeah, you and me both." He got unsteadily out of bed, not in the least bothered that he was completely naked. "I'm goin' home."  
  
"Sure you don't want to stick around a while longer?"  
  
Joe pulled on his jeans, not acknowledging her eyes sweeping over his impressive body. "I'm sure."  
  
He left Rick and Jake sleeping, knowing from experience they didn't appreciate being woken, and grabbed the first cab he found. He couldn't wait to get out of the rundown neighbourhood and back to what he considered civilisation, West LA, where he had always lived and now tried to socialise in. Somehow, though, he often seemed to end up in Compton or South Central or somewhere poor and crummy.  
  
He was glad to arrive back at his sleek, expensive apartment building, announcing good living and taste. The glass elevator bore him smoothly up the top floor and he felt his mood begin to brighten until he reached his door. Then he noticed the envelope attached to it, bearing his name. Joe knew from experience that letters pinned to his door never held good news.  
  
He tugged it free and entered the apartment. The place was a mess, as usual. Clothes, sports equipment, dinner plates, fast-food containers, empty drinks, magazines and various other items lay strewn everywhere. Yet despite this, the modern, open-plan home with its neutral colour scheme and popular minimalism still looked exclusive and enticing. Joe loved the place for this.  
  
The sunlight was streaming through the full-length window on the far side of the apartment, where in most places a wall would have been. It allowed a view of practically the whole city, but Joe wasn't interested in sightseeing. He wasted no time in changing into a pair of knee-length shorts and a tank top. Grabbing his surfboard from where it was propped against the wall, he stuffed the letter, unopened, into his pocket and left again.  
  
Even though he knew he still wasn't fully sober, he drove to Santa Monica beach. He had surfed the waters there ever since he had first moved to LA and had developed a strong attachment to the waves, just like he had to the city. Joe had always loved to surf. A natural athlete, he could turn his hand to any sport and usually come out shining. Nothing could take that away from him.  
  
He wasted no time in dumping his shirt and towel and sprinting into the clear blue water. For half an hour he rode the waves without a break: turning, hanging, barrelling. His adrenaline rose with every one he conquered and by the time he jogged back onto the sand, his hangover was forgotten.  
  
More than a few women turned to stare at him as he headed back to his spot on the beach. The droplets of ocean water glistened on his bronzed body, the sheen outlining his hard muscles to their full advantage. Joe pushed his damp hair back and flashed a particularly attractive girl his wide, engaging grin. She smiled back and he was about to abandon his board and go talk to her when he noticed the unopened letter still sitting on his tank top.  
  
Joe sighed and abandoned the flirtation for then. He couldn't ignore the letter forever. Maybe it wouldn't be something too bad. He sat down on his towel, slipped on his designer shades to keep the blazing sun from dazzling him, and tore the envelope open.  
  
_'Mr Hardy  
  
As I am sure you are aware, you have failed to pay the rent for your apartment for the past three months. As your landlord, I have been very patient in allowing you time to catch up with your payments but once again I have been left out of pocket. This is not the first time this has happened and your reliability as a tenant has become less and less suitable.  
  
It is with regret that I therefore inform you that you are being evicted from Apartment 15 of San Marcel Building, Brentwood with immediate effect. I am allowing you three days to exit the building and return your keys.  
  
Failure to comply with this notice will result in the involvement of the police and a possible prosecution.'  
  
_It was signed by his landlord, a man Joe hadn't seen in nearly four months, thanks to his excellent avoidance tactics.  
  
"Oh shit," he muttered to himself.  
  
He screwed the letter up into a crumpled ball and flopped onto his back.  
  
What the hell was he going to do now?  
  
X X X  
  
In New York, Frank sat at his desk and stared at the phone, building up the courage to dial the number. It was pathetic. He was a man that had faced numerous shoot-outs, hostage situations and general violence in the line of duty, yet here he was dreading making a simple phone call.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he began to punch in the digits. The phone rang for nearly a minute before a deep voice spoke.  
  
"Hey, this is Joe. I'm not around right now so talk to the machine."  
  
Frank sighed softly. He considered hanging up but something told him not to. He waited for the beep.  
  
"Joe, it's Frank. Just thought I'd call to see how you are. Mom and Dad say hi. They'd like you to give them a call if you get a minute. Um... things are good here. Bailey's getting on well at school, you'll probably be pleased to hear he's got the football bug already. Pick up the phone and let me know how you're doing, yeah? Speak to you soon, bro."  
  
He hung up feeling no better, maybe even that little bit worse. He tapped his fingers against the desk for a minute before grabbing the receiver again.  
  
"Hello?" This time it was a child's voice that answered.  
  
"Hey, big guy, it's me."  
  
"Hi Dad."  
  
"You getting ready to go to school?"  
  
"Yep. Mom's just packing my lunch."  
  
"I'll come pick you up this afternoon, OK? It's our weekend together."  
  
"Yeah, I know. Mom's got the schedule pinned to the refrigerator."  
  
Frank couldn't help but be impressed that his seven-year-old son knew what a schedule was. Bailey had definitely inherited his father's brains. "What'd you want to this weekend, kid?"  
  
"Go to the zoo."  
  
"OK, we can do that."  
  
"And go see the Rangers play?" Bailey was already sports-mad. He was so much like his uncle in personality it was astounding.  
  
"If I can get tickets."  
  
"And the Knicks?"  
  
"We can't do both. We've only got two days, remember?"  
  
"And can we eat Chinese food?"  
  
"Sure, if you want."  
  
"Will you show me how to fire your gun?"  
  
"I keep telling you, no."  
  
"How about your handcuffs?"  
  
"I already showed you how to use them."  
  
"Show me again!"  
  
"Yeah, all right, Bailey, we'll talk about it tonight. Go get ready for school while I speak to your mom."  
  
"OK, see you later, Dad."  
  
The phone was handed over and Frank could hear his son charging away.  
  
"Frank Hardy, don't you dare show our son how to use a gun, handcuffs or anything else to do with your job," Rachel Madsen warned.  
  
"What'd you take me for?"  
  
"In the interests of diplomacy, I won't answer that."  
  
Frank sighed. Rachel had never been that keen on him since he'd got her pregnant. It was no wonder they'd had no future together.  
  
"I want him home by 6pm on Sunday at the very latest."  
  
"I know the drill, Rachel."  
  
"Then how come you're always late? Last time it was nearly 9pm."  
  
"We got caught in traffic."  
  
"Is that the best excuse you can come up with?"  
  
"Rachel, I'm at work. I'm not starting an argument now."  
  
"Am I asking you to?"  
  
"I have to go. Tell Bailey I'll see him at 3pm."  
  
"Make sure you're not late."  
  
"I won't be."  
  
"I've heard that before," Rachel snorted. She hung up without so much as a goodbye.  
  
"Nice talking to you as well," Frank muttered as he replaced the receiver.  
  
He worked steadily through his reports until 2.45 rolled around. He subconsciously kept an ear open for the phone, as if expecting Joe to ring him back, even though he knew his kid brother wouldn't even consider it. Finally giving up, he filed the report and headed out to his Chrysler to pick his son up from school.  
  
Bailey had won a scholarship to a private school in downtown Manhattan when he had started school, which had been rather fortunate because Rachel had refused to let her son attend a public elementary school with their nasty problems like no money, badly behaved kids, harassed teachers and playground bullies. Frank, more realistic and the proud product of a public school education, had pointed out some perfectly respectable Brooklyn elementaries with good reputations and kids from nice neighbourhoods, but Rachel was having none of it. She'd insisted Frank pay for his son to have a private education and no amount of arguing or cajoling would change her mind. Frank had been very relieved when Bailey had received the scholarship for promising future intellect at Woodrow Academy.  
  
For once, he managed to arrive on time and claimed a parking space by leaving the car in a tow-away. Woodrow, in the middle of Manhattan just a block from the financial district, opened out onto the a busy street and the students, all boys, had to navigate their way around hurrying people in business suits at the beginning and end of every day. As Frank ascended the steps towards the entrance, the bell rang.  
  
Immediately, the double doors were flung open and boys aged six to fourteen began spilling out. Frank tried to identify his son in the crowd of identical grey trousers, white shirts and red ties and, as usual, failed.  
  
"Hi Dad." He eventually alerted to Bailey's presence by his son tugging on his sleeve.  
  
"How's it going, big guy?"  
  
"Really good. We played softball today."  
  
"Yeah? That's great."  
  
"When I'm eight I can start playing football for real."  
  
"There's more to life than football, Bailey." Frank didn't want his son becoming seduced by the attractions of sport. He'd seen firsthand how that could destroy a person.  
  
"Yeah, I know," Bailey intoned. He'd heard it before. "Dad, why don't you like sports?"  
  
"I do like sports. I fence, I swim and run, I play basketball at the station; I don't dislike them. I just believe sports should be a hobby, not a life."  
  
"Because of what happened to Uncle Joe?" Bailey was wise beyond his years, already aided by his elite education.  
  
"Yeah," Frank said shortly. "C'mon, we'll go to McDonalds."  
  
Bailey bounded happily down the stairs, immediately forgetting he'd ever mentioned his uncle. Frank wished it were that easy for him to forget.  
  
X X X  
  
Joe met up with Rick and Jake at a bar on the Boulevard. The two cops were supposed to be on duty but judging by the beers they held, they weren't taking their jobs too seriously. Joe turned down the offer of a drink. His every possession was currently sitting outside in the 'Vette and he didn't want to leave them their for too long. It would start attracting attention from the wrong people.  
  
"Since when do you say no to a drink?" Jake asked in disbelief.  
  
"No time today. I got a favour to ask."  
  
"You outta stuff?"  
  
"Nah, not about that."  
  
"Spill it, Jock," Rick said amiably.  
  
"I need a place to crash."  
  
"Why? What's goin' on?"  
  
"I've been kicked out. Got nowhere else to go."  
  
"Well, I got a couch you can have," Rick said. "Rent free, all-night parties, constant stream of hot chicks."  
  
"Sounds good. I owe you one, man."  
  
"Hey, that's what friends are for. Wanna key?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
Rick produced a ring of keys and pulled one off, tossing it to Joe. "Make yourself at home. I'll be back later. You up for a night out?"  
  
"What'd you think?" Joe raised a hand in farewell. "Catch you later, guys."  
  
Rick had a small, shabby apartment in a suitably rundown building downtown, too close from Compton to be subject to major gang wars but not far enough away to be safe. Joe couldn't help but wonder what Rick did with all the extra money he got from turning a blind eye and helping out the right people. Probably blew it on women and a fast lifestyle, just like he had done.  
  
Joe let himself into the apartment. It looked much like his had done, belongings and junk lay around where it had fallen. On a table, a pack of coke and a couple of unsmoked joints sat waiting for Rick to come home to. A six pack of Bud was balanced on the arm of the old couch. Joe smiled.  
  
It was already like home.


	3. Band Of Brothers

CHAPTER 3 – BAND OF BROTHERS  
  
"Dad?" Bailey called from the living room. "Can I call Grandpa and Grandma?"  
  
Rachel didn't like her son to talk to his paternal grandparents. The only time he spoke to them was when he was with his dad.  
  
"Yeah, sure." Frank wandered through, sipping from a can of beer. "You know the number."  
  
He sat down to watch the Knicks game on the TV while Bailey chatted animatedly to his grandparents. It was over twenty minutes before he finally ran out of things to tell them and relinquished the phone to Frank.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
"Frank, how are you?"  
  
"Pretty good, thanks."  
  
"Work's OK?"  
  
"Yeah, work's great. I only got two cases on at the moment, so things are a bit less hectic than they usually are."  
  
"That's not like New York to have a slump in murders."  
  
"Tell me about it. I'm waiting for the next gang war to start, then there'll be more bodies than we know what to do with."  
  
"You sound so cynical," his mother chuckled. "Just like your father used to."  
  
"I'm not like Dad," Frank laughed. "I still like it here. I love the job."  
  
"That's all that matters. You have to be happy, Frank."  
  
"I am."  
  
"Any women on the horizon?"  
  
"No one special. Can't say I'm even looking for anyone."  
  
"There's more to life than girlfriends, sweetie."  
  
Frank grinned. He adored his mother, even if she insisted on giving him advice about every single aspect of his life. "So, how're things in Bayport?" he asked.  
  
"Quiet. Did you know Chet won the Restaurant of the Month award from the Bayport Times?"  
  
Chet had also turned down the opportunity of college and stayed in Bayport to take over his parents' restaurant after their retirement.  
  
"No. That's great. Tell him congratulations from me."  
  
"And Biff seems to have settled down well now he's come home."  
  
"What's he doing now?"  
  
"Your old high school has offered him the job as varsity coach for the football team."  
  
Typical Biff, always landing on his feet. He'd had the same dreams as Joe when they'd graduated high school, to play pro football, but whilst he'd had the ambitions, he hadn't had Joe's talent. He'd accepted a scholarship to play at Illinois after failing to get drafted into the NFL straight from high school. The scouts had only been interested in Joe.  
  
But not even Division 1 college football had been enough to attract the talent scouts and Biff had accepted he wasn't good enough to play pro. He'd fallen in with the coaching side of the game and after graduation had been offered the opportunity to coach the freshman team at Illinois. He'd returned to Bayport a month previously after his contract had run out, a successful and highly respected young coach.  
  
"Good for Biff," Frank said. "I assume it's just a pit-stop on his way to a bigger job, though."  
  
"Knowing Biff, I should think so. He's talking about coaching college varsity once he's got a little more experience." Laura Hardy paused and Frank knew the mention of football had reminded her of her youngest son. "Frank, have you heard from Joe?"  
  
"Mom, you know Joe never calls me anymore."  
  
"I keep leaving him messages but I don't think he even listens to them."  
  
"That's the way Joe is."  
  
"Why has he become like this, Frank?"  
  
"I don't know. He's still angry. I guess he's just trying to deal with things in whatever way he can."  
  
"I don't even know if he's safe."  
  
"Joe'll be safe, Mom. He always is."  
  
"Why won't he just talk to me? It's like he doesn't trust me anymore."  
  
"Mom, don't get upset about it."  
  
"It shouldn't be like this, Frank. I haven't spoken to my own son in four months. I haven't seen him in nearly a year. How is that right?"  
  
"It isn't. But it isn't your fault. It's Joe's call. We can't force him into what he doesn't want. He's not a kid anymore."  
  
"I miss him, Frank."  
  
Frank sighed softly. "So do I, Mom."  
  
X X X  
  
The three LA guys had unusually had a quiet night. After a few hours at a Malibu beachfront bar, they'd headed back to Rick's place and collapsed on the couch with a fresh six-pack of Bud and a video of the Raiders/Falcons game. They should have lugged all of Joe's stuff up from the Corvette but had been unable to be bothered, so it all still sat in the car.  
  
"Here ya go, Joey boy." Rick handed Joe a smouldering joint.  
  
Too drunk to care, Joe took it and sealed his lips around it. He inhaled the dizzying smoke deep into his lungs.  
  
"Jake-o?" Rick asked, about to roll another.  
  
Jake waved a lazy hand. "Nah, I'm outta here. I'm on a promise tonight with that hot Hispanic chick from Roxy's."  
  
"Rosita?" Joe looked up sharply.  
  
"Yeah, that's the one."  
  
"You treat her right, OK? Don't give her any shit."  
  
"She your girl or something?"  
  
Joe took another drag before passing the joint back to Rick. "She's only a kid. She deserves better."  
  
"I'll be nice to her, man, don't worry." Jake got his feet and grabbed his jacket. "Check you later, boys."  
  
Joe and Rick finished the joint and downed the rest of the beers as they watched the game late into the night. Even with the dope and alcohol inhibiting his senses, Joe still experience a stab of pain straight to the heart when he saw his old buddies take to the field. It hurt to watch the new wide receiver, younger than him and a hot-shot Harvard grad, make catch after catch.  
  
"And that's three touchdowns in a row from wide receiver Charlie Townsend!" the excited commentator yelled. "They call this guy the new Joe Hardy, and they're not wrong! Maybe in a few years, Townsend will come to be even better than the former Raiders sensation."  
  
"Bastard!" Joe hollered, feeling a sudden rush of anger at this flashy kid being compared to him. He hurled his empty beer can at the screen but his aim was well off thanks to the stimulants in his bloodstream. "That guy can never be me! He'll never be better than I was!"  
  
"Chill out, man," Rick groaned. "The guy's talking outta his ass."  
  
"It's bullshit, Rick!"  
  
"I know, I know!"  
  
Joe hurled himself back against the cushions. He couldn't handle seeing the team run out onto the field without him. He should have been there, in their midst, still the star. But they were carrying on like he'd never been there.  
  
"Turn it off, man," he muttered. "I can't watch this."  
  
Rich raised an eyebrow, but got to his feet and flicked the set off. Before he could sit back down again, someone started hammering on the door.  
  
"Guess Jake's got blown off by your girl." Rick ambled to the door. Out of habit, he put his eye to the spyhole.  
  
Joe slumped back on the couch and reached for a fresh beer. He was about to pop the ringpull when Rick suddenly jumped back from the door.  
  
"Shit! Joe, move, man!"  
  
Joe leapt to his feet as Rick sprinted past him, heading for the window. "What the hell's goin' on?"  
  
"We gotta get outta here, now! Come on, Joe!"  
  
"McDonald!" The pounded on the door had increased. "Open up! We're kicking this door down in ten seconds."  
  
"Joe, move it!" The desperate Rick literally dragged Joe to the window.  
  
Joe found himself being pushed out onto the fire stairs. Intoxication instantly gone in his panic, he scrambled down to the ground, nearly being hit on the head by Rick's boots as the cop practically jumped down.  
  
"Rick, what's happening?" Joe demanded, grabbing hold of his friend. "What the fuck have you gotten into now?"  
  
"Just run, Joe. I gotta find Jake."  
  
"Rick, I want to know!"  
  
"You think I'm gonna stand around here explaining to you? For God's sake, man, save your ass while you got the chance!"  
  
Rick had torn himself free and was sprinting away into the night before Joe could grab him again. Instinct took over and Joe wasted no more time. He shot across the street, throwing himself into the Corvette and speeding away from the apartment building. He didn't stop driving until he'd reached Santa Monica.  
  
The beach had become his sanctuary ever since he'd first arrived in LA. It had always been the one place he could go, stare out at the ocean and think without anyone interrupting him or recognising him. At that moment, he could think of nowhere else he could flee too.  
  
He sat down on the sand, looking across the darkened waters. The silver light of the full moon shimmered across the waves, for once empty of surfers. Joe wondered what the hell kind of people Rick and Jake had got involved with. He assumed it was either drugs related or a pissed-off gang- banger the two had stitched up. Rick and Jake played by their own rules and didn't care about crossing dangerous people to get what they wanted.  
  
Joe knew there was a chance that, if his prediction was right, there was a chance Rick and Jake would die that night. You didn't mess with downtown criminals and live to tell the tale often. He hoped they'd have the sense to keep their heads down but, knowing them, they wouldn't.  
  
This was one thing Joe did not want to get involved in. He wasn't exactly the most law-abiding guy in LA, but he wasn't into serious crime and he didn't intend falling into that trap. He needed to distance himself from Rick and Jake and their activities fast, before word got around that he was a part of it.  
  
Joe realised that LA wasn't a good place to be at that moment. There was nowhere he could lay his head until it all blew over. There was only one thing he could do. Get out of the city.  
  
But where the hell could he go? All his friends were in LA. He'd lost contact with others in different states long ago, even before his football dreams had ended. He'd been too busy to keep in touch. There was no one he could turn to.  
  
Then it hit him. There was one person. The one person he had been able to rely on every day of his life.  
  
The person whose message he had erased that morning without even listening to.  
  
X X X  
  
Joe spent the rest of the night at LAX airport, waiting for his flight to JFK, bought with the last money he had in his bank account. The little cash he'd made from working at Roxy's had never stayed in his pocket for long, let alone made it to the bank. He'd had to keep up the lifestyle he'd become accustomed too. Partying was more important than paying the rent and bills.  
  
As he lay with his long body stretched along four uncomfortable departure lounge chairs, he couldn't help but think how much easier life would be now if he'd done some things differently. But he'd been so young. Too young to have so much money at his disposal to do whatever he wanted with. Which kid would think to save for a rainy day when all he could see ahead of him was sunshine and light? Joe certainly hadn't.  
  
If he had, for one minute, thought about tomorrow, he had only seen the future as bright. No young guy would ever imagine he could lose everything in an instant. He'd thought he was indestructible, that it didn't matter if he blew his money because he could earn it all back again by just playing one game. After all, he had been labelled the biggest talent to hit the NFL in years.  
  
Eighteen had been too young to have that label, that adulation, the pressure of being not just a star player, but a nationwide sex symbol. It had blown his mind, robbed him of his ability to think rationally about what he was doing. He started going along with anything, just so he could experience every aspect of his new wonderful life. Then he found he couldn't stop. He hadn't stopped since.  
  
Joe sighed softly to himself. He knew he'd blown it. If only he'd been that little bit more like Frank. Frank had always been the sensible one, thinking things through while Joe jumped in with both feet without looking. The elder brother had been responsible, taking his future into account in his decisions. That was the reason he'd gotten into Princeton to major in criminology. It had paid off and Frank's life, in Joe's eyes, had become the epitome of everything their parents had ever wanted for him.  
  
But Frank had been intelligent, put his academics above his places on the baseball and swimming teams. Sport had been the only thing Joe had attended school for. He couldn't have cared less what went on in class. He knew he wasn't stupid; he could've gotten Bs or even As if he'd had the inclination or effort. But all he needed was Cs to stay eligible for the football team and that was all he ever got.  
  
Looking back, Joe knew he'd been wrong. But he could never admit that. He'd made his choices in life and he had to make everyone think he still thought they were the right ones.  
  
Joe Hardy still had his pride.  
  
X X X  
  
Getting off the plane at JFK, Joe walked past a stand of free newspapers for various big cities across the US, as was customary at most international airports. Out of habit, he picked up the LA Times.  
  
He was more than shocked to look at the front page and see two black and white ID badge photos of Rick and Jake staring up at him. He stopped dead.  
  
'Two LAPD detectives were arrested last night on charges of corruptions and the possession of illegal substances. Sergeant Richard McDonald, 29, and his Vice Squad partner Jacob Delaney, 27, had been under investigation by the Internal Affairs Unit for several months following the arising of suspicion over their conduct whilst on duty. They have been suspended from the LAPD and are set to face up to five years in jail if convicted.'  
  
"Jesus Christ," Joe muttered to himself. The people threatening to charge down the door last night hadn't been enraged gang-bangers, but cops. That was one thing he hadn't considered.  
  
He looked at the paper for a long minute, then folded it up and shoved it into the nearest bin.  
  
"You blew it, guys," he said sadly.  
  
X X X  
  
Frank had woken to find Bailey had crawled into the double bed with him overnight. It was a thing the boy often did, as if he wanted to spend every precious moment with his father before he had to return to his mom. Frank had lain with his son in his arms for a while, heart filled with pride at the perfection he had produced, before getting up to start breakfast.  
  
He was mixing scrambled eggs when someone knocked on the door. Frank looked heavenwards. Was he the only one who closed the main security door down in the lobby?  
  
Leaving the eggs on the kitchen table, he moved through to answer the door before Bailey was woken. He pulled open the door and found himself staring into a pair of heartbreakingly familiar blue eyes. For a long minute, he was robbed of words.  
  
Finally, he managed to speak.  
  
"Joe?" 


	4. The Truth Hurts

CHAPTER 4 – THE TRUTH HURTS  
  
Neither brother knew what to say. Joe shifted awkwardly, not wanting to look Frank in the eye. Frank just wanted to pull his kid brother into his arms, but something stopped him.  
  
"Joe, what're you doing here?" he eventually asked.  
  
Joe shrugged. "I ran outta places to go."  
  
"Are you in trouble?"  
  
"No more than usual."  
  
"What happened to living it up in some swanky penthouse?"  
  
"Penthouse is gone, bro." Joe kicked at the bags lying at his feet. "Can I come in or what?"  
  
"Um, yeah...sure."  
  
"Anyone would think you weren't pleased to see me," Joe said as he moved past his brother.  
  
"What'd you expect, Joe? I haven't heard a thing from you in months. For all I knew, you could be dead."  
  
"I'm not dead."  
  
"No kidding."  
  
Joe dropped his bags in the hall and was at the living room door in a few long strides. "Any chance of a beer for your little bro, then?"  
  
"It's ten o'clock in the morning."  
  
Joe flashed a smart-ass grin. "It's never too early for me."  
  
"I've no beer in." Frank forced his face to remain expressionless. "How about coffee?"  
  
"I guess it's a stimulant."  
  
"Give me two minutes, yeah?"  
  
"Hey, I got all the time in the world," Joe drawled. "Have had for a whole goddam year."  
  
Frank left him to settle on the couch and walked slowly back through to the kitchen. He didn't know how to feel; there were so many emotions coursing through him. Relief Joe was OK. Anger at him for just turning up when he needed a favour. Sadness at the tension that now existed between them.  
  
There had never been tension in his relationship Joe before the world of pro football tore them apart. They had been best friends until Joe had become a national treasure. Now Frank felt like he was talking to a stranger. He hated the careless attitude Joe had adopted. He sounded like some dumb dropout who was wasting his life.  
  
But wasn't that what Joe was doing now?  
  
Frank sighed and poured two mugs of coffee. He didn't want it to be like this. He loved Joe; he was the little brother he'd sworn to always look out for. But why did he feel like a stranger?  
  
He carried the cups into the living room. Joe had stretched his long, muscular body out across the couch as if he'd lived here all his life. He'd always been stronger in build than Frank, muscles more toned, more defined. But now he was bigger as well. In senior year he'd hit another growth spurt and had shot up to six feet three, ending up two inches taller than his elder brother.  
  
Now he looked huge. Tight stonewashed jeans hugged powerful thighs and a V- neck T-shirt showed off every contour of Joe's impressive physique. Frank spent more than enough time down the gym, but his own lean, toned body was nothing compared to his brother's. He'd imagined Joe would have let himself go after the loss of his football career, given up caring, but he'd been wrong. There wasn't an inch of fat on him.  
  
"You're looking good, kid," Frank said, sitting down opposite his brother.  
  
Joe acknowledged the remark with a tilt of his head. Frank felt a sudden flash of annoyance at his brother's appearance. Even with his life in tatters, Joe managed to look great. He'd always been the one the girls fell head-over heels for with his devastating good looks and wicked grin. Even unshaven, hair in need of a cut and brilliant blue eyes tired, he was still devilishly attractive. Maybe even more so than when he'd been the All-American boy next door.  
  
Frank could still remember the time when the Raiders had claimed that eighteen-year-old Joe had single-handedly attracted thousands of young females to football. That was a big weight to have on your shoulders, being your sport's sex symbol, when you were little more than a kid.  
  
"What you thinkin'?" Joe asked, taking a mouthful of coffee and grimacing at the taste. "Wanna Irish this up a little?"  
  
"You're an alcoholic?"  
  
"Liking alcohol doesn't make me an alcoholic."  
  
"How much are you drinking?"  
  
"What's it gotta do with you?"  
  
"Drunk every night?" Frank ignored the defence.  
  
Joe shrugged casually. "If I feel like it."  
  
"And do you?"  
  
A smile curved Joe's lips. "Usually."  
  
"You make it sound like it's a good thing, Joe."  
  
"Maybe it is."  
  
"Man, I knew you were pretty messed up but I'd no idea you'd gone this far."  
  
"What's your problem, Frank?" Anger welled inside Joe. "This is my life. I like it this way."  
  
"Getting drunk every night is not a life, Joe."  
  
Joe laughed in his brother's face. "I don't just get drunk. I have a fucking good time too."  
  
"For God's sake, Joe, will you drop this stupid attitude?"  
  
"It's not an attitude! This is who I am now, whether you like it or not. I'm sorry I don't match up to you, Frank. I'm sorry I don't have a Princeton diploma and a steady job and family commitments. But I like who I am and I'm not changing."  
  
Their eyes locked, chocolate brown and ocean blue boring into each other. No matter how different the brothers were, or had become, the Hardy temper remained the same in both of them. Joe's was still the least controlled and he already was on his feet, ready to solve his problems with his fists as usual.  
  
"Don't you dare hit me, Joe."  
  
Joe drew a big, solid fist back, ready to land his punch. His free hand curled round Frank's shirt, half-lifting him out his chair. Frank was no lightweight but Joe pulled him up as if he were a feather.  
  
"Joe, you punch me and we are through!" Frank roared. "Back off now!"  
  
For several long seconds, Joe's fist was held in mid-air. Frank tensed himself for the blow.  
  
"I've never hit you yet," Joe said. His fist fell and he released his grip. "I ain't starting now."  
  
He slumped back down onto the couch.  
  
"Dad?" a young voice said. "What's going on?"  
  
Frank groaned inwardly. In the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten all about his son sleeping in the next room.  
  
"Nothing, big guy, it's OK."  
  
Bailey was already looking to Joe. His forehead creased in uncertainty as he surveyed the big blond man. For several moments, he and Joe gazed at each other without words.  
  
"Uncle Joe?" Bailey finally asked, his uncertainty clear in his voice.  
  
"Yeah. Who do you think it is?" Joe tried to laugh but failed. "C'mon, Bailey, you know me."  
  
Bailey's smile was clearly unconvinced. A frown played across Joe's face as he sat forward.  
  
"Hey, I know you haven't seen me in a while..."  
  
"Three years," Bailey said.  
  
"No way. It hasn't been that long."  
  
Bailey nodded. "I saw you when you won All-Conference MVP."  
  
"Shit." Joe raked his fingers through his hair. Three damn years without seeing his own nephew. "Bailey, I'm sorry, man."  
  
"Bay, why don't you go get dressed?" Frank interrupted.  
  
The boy looked to his father for a split second before his eyes turned back to Joe.  
  
"It's OK, I'm not going anywhere," Joe said.  
  
"C'mon, big guy." Frank gently took Bailey by the shoulders and steered him out of the room.  
  
Joe looked up at his brother.  
  
"He doesn't even know who I am," he said quietly, his eyes filled with pain.  
  
"What'd you expect, Joe? He's only seen you a dozen times since he was born." Frank sighed softly. "He used to look in all those magazines that always had your pictures in and ask me 'is that really my uncle?' because he honestly wasn't sure. You were never real to him, just a guy he saw on TV or in newspapers or magazines."  
  
"I sent him the best birthday and Christmas gifts any kid could wish for."  
  
"That wasn't what he wanted, Joe! He wanted an uncle who was there for him. But first you were too busy living the high life to spend any time with him. Then you were more interested in bumming around drinking, doing drugs and sleeping with a different woman every night. Why the hell should my son know you?"  
  
Joe's eyes darkened. "How do you know if I do drugs?"  
  
"You think I haven't been checking up on you? I knew you'd go over the edge."  
  
"What're you talking about?"  
  
"I've got access to every criminal record in the country if I need it. I've called up your file a few times." Frank shook his head in disgust. "I couldn't believe my kid brother even had a file."  
  
"You've spied on me?" Joe practically screamed.  
  
"Don't pull the high and mighty act on me, Joe! Not after all the things you've done." Frank's own eyes were blazing with anger. "Bar brawls, assaults, drunk driving, possession of marijuana, possession of cocaine, disturbing the peace, non-payment of fines... The list goes on!"  
  
"So why the hell am I not in jail if I'm such a criminal?"  
  
Frank barked a laugh. "Convenient, isn't it, because you should be! You must be friends with a lot of bent LA cops to have got yourself off all those charges with just a few fines and cautions to show for it."  
  
"At least I had people I could turn to." Joe looked up angrily. "People who were willing to help me out. Tell me, Frank, if I'd come to you and asked you to do that, what would you have said?"  
  
A muscle jumped in Frank's strong jaw. "I'd have said you'd made your bed and you'd better lie in it. If you're gonna go around rubbishing the law, you have to take the consequences."  
  
Joe laughed bitterly. "Well at least we know where we stand."  
  
"You're pathetic, Joe. I can't believe you've sunk this low."  
  
"So shoot me. You always were the better brother, weren't you?"  
  
"Oh, come off it. You were the one who had it all! You were the national stud, the one people hero-worshipped. I was just the quiet one who kept my head down and got on with what I had to do without money or fame."  
  
"Well, I'm so sorry I'm not perfect like you, Frank."  
  
"I am not perfect."  
  
"Could've fooled me."  
  
"For God's sake, Joe, I got an eighteen-year-old high school graduate pregnant on one drunken night. You always seemed to have had this idea that I never did anything wrong. I'm no saint but you're so bitter about the fact I've made something of my life that you can't see that!"  
  
"You think I'm jealous of you?"  
  
"Yeah." Frank nodded violently. "Yeah, I do."  
  
"What the hell do you have that I should be jealous of? I was a star; everyone in this damn country knew my name. You're nobody, Frank. No one has a clue who you are."  
  
"And no one has a clue who you are either now!" Frank roared back.  
  
"Fuck you, Frank!"  
  
"You can't keep living this lie, Joe! Yes, for a few great years, you were America's golden boy. You had it all and more. But you don't any more and you have to accept that!"  
  
"Just shut up, all right!"  
  
"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"  
  
A sob tore itself free from Joe's throat. "Fuck you," he choked out.  
  
Frank's anger crumbled as he saw the tears running down Joe's face. The pain of seeing his brother cry hit him like an arrow through his heart.  
  
Instinctively, he moved to sit beside Joe. Wrapping his arms round his kid brother's broad, muscled shoulders, he pulled him into his own body.  
  
"It'll be OK, Joe," he whispered. "I'll always be here for you, no matter what you do." 


	5. The Path to Self Destruction

**A/N **– Just made a few changes coz a reviewer thought this chapter was more R than PG 13 and, even though I don't have a problem with any of the content, I don't want to expel me! Hope it doesn't detract from the emotions.  
  
CHAPTER 5 – ON THE PATH TO SELF-DESTRUCTION  
  
Bailey had insisted on spending the day showing Joe around New York. Frank had barely had the chance to say a private word to his brother but hadn't had the heart to burst the happy bubble that seemed to have surrounded Bailey since his uncle's arrival. Bailey adored Joe, worshipped the ground he walked on, even though Joe had never been a true part of his life. To see his exaltation at Joe's presence had warmed Frank's heart.  
  
That evening, as Bailey and Joe watched the Eastern Conference game, Frank's cell phone rang. Leaving the living room, he answered the call.  
  
"Frank, we've had a shooting out near the river," his partner's voice told him. "Two dead."  
  
"Gang war?"  
  
"Nah, looks like the Mafia have been getting pissed off. The boss wants us on it. You got someone to watch Bailey?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, I guess."  
  
"All right, I'll meet you at the station."  
  
"'Kay, see you in five."  
  
Frank sighed softly as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He didn't want to do this, but what other choice did he have? He returned to the living room.  
  
"Joe, I gotta ask you a favour."  
  
"Go for it," Joe said, swallowing a mouthful of beer, his fourth of the evening.  
  
"Can you watch Bailey for a little while? I gotta go to work for a few hours."  
  
Joe shrugged carelessly. "Sure. He won't be no trouble."  
  
"Sure you don't mind?"  
  
"Why would I mind?"  
  
"OK, make sure he's in bed in half an hour and he brushes his teeth."  
  
"Gotcha, bro."  
  
Frank wasn't convinced but he didn't have time to hang around.  
  
"Bailey, you behave for Joe, all right?"  
  
Bailey's gaze didn't even move from the game. "Sure, Dad."  
  
Frank cast one last look back at Joe, whose eyes were also glued to the screen, and was ashamed to realise he no longer trusted his kid brother.  
  
"Have a good night," he said quietly.  
  
Neither of them replied.  
  
X X X  
  
Joe finished the last of the six-pack and tossed the empty can carelessly to the floor.  
  
"Dad hates it when people mess up his place," Bailey warned.  
  
"What's he gonna do? Shoot me?" Joe shifted restlessly. "What time's it?"  
  
"Half ten. Uncle Joe, Dad said I had to be in bed an hour ago."  
  
"What your dad doesn't know doesn't hurt him. You tired?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then what'd you need to go to bed for?"  
  
"It's the rules."  
  
Joe laughed. "Kid, there's a lot more to life than rules. You'll learn that soon."  
  
"You don't follow the rules, Uncle Joe?"  
  
"Damn right I don't." Joe glanced at his watch. He was itching to get out of the apartment and find a bit of life. New York was just as much a party capital as LA, yet here he was sitting at home. Joe couldn't remember the last time he'd stayed home.  
  
He got abruptly to his feet, reaching for his Raiders bomber jacket.  
  
"Hey, Bailey, you be all right on your own for a while?"  
  
"Why, where you going?"  
  
"Thought I'd check out the nightlife. Can't exactly take you with me."  
  
"I've never been home on my own before."  
  
"You'll be all right. Grab a bag of chips and watch a movie. I'll be back before you know it."  
  
Bailey shrugged. "OK. I'm cool."  
  
Joe grinned and held out a hand to slap palms with the boy. "I know you are, man. I'll check you later, all right?"  
  
"Sure, Uncle Joe."  
  
Joe liked the kid even more. He raised a hand to his nephew and left the apartment without a backward glance.  
  
He didn't know where was best to go but he got it into his head to aim for the Bronx. He knew the Bronx was New York's Compton, the place where he could find the people he wanted. The cab driver made no comment when Joe told him to stop on a suitable-looking street corner in a shabby neighbourhood.  
  
For a while, Joe just walked the streets, gauging the neighbourhood like he had done in LA. He got a few suspicious glances but the sheer size of him, shoulders practically bursting his bomber jacket's seams, discouraged anyone from starting on him.  
  
"Yo man, you lookin' for somethin'?" a voice behind him asked.  
  
He turned to find a young black man, shorter and skinnier than him, checking him out.  
  
"Might be."  
  
"Man, whatever you want, I got it." The man's eyes swept over him, then his face suddenly broke into a huge grin and his voice jumped several octaves. "Oh my God! You're Joe Hardy, ain't you?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"No maybe about it! You were the biggest thing to hit the NFL in decades! What the hell're you doin' round here?"  
  
"What'd you think I'm doin'?"  
  
"Joe, man, whatever you need, I give it you. Hell, you have it for nothin'."  
  
"For real?"  
  
"Yeah, bro, you were like my hero when you were playin' for the Patriots! That's ma team." The man patted his chest. "You were a god on the field, man!"  
  
"Yeah, whatever. You got some stuff or what?"  
  
"For 'sho, brother." The guy was already digging around in the backpack that lay at his feet. Within seconds he had produced a clingfilm wrap and a small plastic packet and was palming them to Joe. "Yo, ma name's Terrell."  
  
"How's it goin'?"  
  
"I'm headin' for a club wid some o' ma boys. You wanna come along."  
  
Joe considered for less than a second before nodding. "Yeah, sounds good. Let's go."  
  
X X X  
  
It was approaching 2am by the time a tired and disheartened Frank arrived home. Why did these fucking gangs feel it necessary to go around blowing each other's brains out if someone looked at them the wrong way? Why couldn't they just live like ordinary, decent human beings?  
  
He wasn't surprised to hear the TV still on when he entered the apartment. He'd guessed Joe wasn't used to going to bed early.  
  
"Was Bailey OK?" he asked, tossing his coat onto the hook as he walked through to the living room.  
  
He received no response, because the person asleep on the couch wasn't his brother, but his son.  
  
"What the fuck?" Frank growled between clenched teeth.  
  
The noise must have penetrated Bailey's sleep for his eyes slowly opened. "Hey, Dad," he said sleepily.  
  
Frank crossed the room in a couple of angry strides and grabbed his son's arm. "Where the hell is Joe, Bailey?"  
  
"He said he wanted to go out but he couldn't take me with him. I heard him say something about 'scoring. Did he go to play football?"  
  
"No, he damn well didn't," Frank ground out.  
  
"He said he wouldn't be too long and that I should watch a movie until he got back. I guess I fell asleep. Is he back yet?"  
  
Frank shook his head sharply. "Go to bed, Bailey."  
  
His son got sleepily off the couch. "Dad, don't be mad at Uncle Joe. He said he's never got chance to party in New York before."  
  
"That's not the point, Bailey. He left you here on your own all night. What sort of asshole does that to a seven-year-old."  
  
"But I was OK."  
  
"You might not have been. Bed, now."  
  
Bailey shrugged and headed for his room. Frank threw himself down into the armchair and reached for the whiskey decanter.  
  
He'd stay up all night and wait for his stupid brother to show his irresponsible face if he had.  
  
X X X  
  
By 4am, Joe was still going strong. To go with the numerous shots and beers he'd been drinking, he'd also dropped an E to really get the party going. The last few hours had become one dizzying whirl of woman, drinking games and dancing. And Joe was loving it.  
  
After another round of wild dancing, he found himself outside with a curly- haired young woman wearing the shortest skirt and smallest top he'd ever seen. He felt like he was in heaven as they moved down the dingy side alley next to the dubious South Bronx club.  
  
The alley stank of rotting rubbish, stale alcohol and urine, but Joe didn't care. His mind was elsewhere.  
  
"I can't believe I've just gone with Joe Hardy!" the woman enthused when they emerged out of the alley together.  
  
"You and hundreds of others," Joe said.  
  
"So many women think you're the hottest guy to grace the planet."  
  
"Maybe they're right."  
  
She looked sideways at him. "I don't get it, Joe. You've got everything most men could wish for but you don't seem to enjoy it."  
  
Joe shrugged. "I enjoyed football."  
  
"And without that, life's nothing?"  
  
"Maybe." Joe didn't want to talk to a stranger about his problems. "I'm outta here."  
  
"Stay a while. The night's still young. Play your cards right and I might be up for round 2."  
  
Joe shook his head. "See you around."  
  
"Will I?"  
  
"Probably not. I'm not planning on hanging around here."  
  
"Pity."  
  
Joe couldn't help but grin. He turned back to glance at her as he walked away.  
  
"A lot of women say that."  
  
X X X  
  
Frank shot to his feet as Joe practically fell through the living room door. His shirt was undone, as was his belt and he stank of beer, cigarette smoke and what Frank recognised to be weed. Smears of red lipstick decorated the area around his mouth but Joe was blissfully unaware as he hurled himself onto the couch.  
  
"Hey, Frankie boy! Having a late night?"  
  
"Where the hell have you been?" Frank roared.  
  
"Partyin' man. One great party."  
  
"You left my seven-year-old son home on his own so you could go get drunk with a bunch of strangers?"  
  
"It wasn't quite like that, bro..."  
  
Joe didn't manage to get any further before Frank had him by the front of his shirt and was dragging to his feet.  
  
"I should beat the stuffing out of you, Joe! I knew you were screwed up but I never thought you'd be so stupid!"  
  
"The kid's smart as hell. He can take care of himself." Joe looked heavenwards. "Jeez, Frank, you're so uptight."  
  
"You irresponsible jerk!" Frank screamed.  
  
Joe's head snapped to one side as Frank's fist made contact with his jaw.  
  
"You may be on the path to self-destruction but you will not take me or my son down it with you!" Frank roared. "You're not gonna screw up our lives as well, Joe!"  
  
"Like I could do that anyway!" Joe screamed back. "How could I split up the idyllic little set-up you got goin' here?"  
  
"Is that the best I can come up with?" Frank shook his head in disgust. "That's you all over, Joe. Just because your life has fallen apart, you expect everyone else's to as well."  
  
"And how would you feel if you lost the only thing you really cared about?"  
  
"I did!"  
  
"What the hell did you lose?"  
  
Frank looked at him sadly, his words barely audible.  
  
"My little brother." 


	6. Hitting The Headlines

CHAPTER 6 – HITTING THE HEADLINES  
  
Laura Hardy always stopped for a cup of coffee at the diner on her way home from church. Fenton hadn't joined her that day, wanting to finish off his tax returns, so she stayed at the counter instead of taking up a booth.  
  
She'd barely taken the first sip of coffee before a large hand landed on her shoulder.  
  
"Hey, Mrs Hardy!"  
  
She smiled at the young man that jumped energetically onto the stool beside her. "Chet, you're not a kid anymore. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Laura?"  
  
Chet laughed. He hadn't changed a bit since high school. He was still chunky, far from in-shape, and still covered in freckles. His humour and laidback attitude hadn't altered either and he had grown up to be one of Bayport's most-loved young men.  
  
"It doesn't sound right." He grinned back and ordered a large chocolate Danish.  
  
"How're you, Chet?" the waitress asked as she slid his food across to him.  
  
"Pretty good, thanks."  
  
"I just got this week's Enquirer. Want a look?"  
  
"You know I can't resist celebrity slander." Chet caught the copy of the National Enquirer and cast his gossip-hungry eye across the front cover. His smile faded immediately. "Um...maybe I'll check it out when I get to work..."  
  
"Since when do you resist the temptation of the Enquirer?" Laura teased.  
  
Chet glanced uneasily at her. Laura frowned in puzzlement.  
  
"Chet? What is it?"  
  
"Nothing. Forget it."  
  
Laura looked down at the magazine he was trying to hide from her. She sighed sadly. "Joe's in there again, isn't he?"  
  
Chet nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Laura."  
  
"Let me see."  
  
"You don't want to. You know what this paper's like."  
  
"Chet. This paper knows more about my son's life than I do now. Let me see."  
  
Looking down at his shoes, Chet handed over the magazine. Laura gazed down at the front cover. A picture of a drunken, unshaven Joe leaving an LA nightclub took up most of it. Underneath it was the caption: Joe Hardy's Fall From Grace.  
  
Inwardly dreading what she would find, Laura turned to the article and began to read exactly what her youngest son had been up to recently. She had no other way of finding out.  
  
'Troubled former Raiders star Joe Hardy's life has been going off the rails ever since he was forced to retire from the NFL just days before his 26th birthday. Now, a year on, he seems to be out of control. Where as once he ruled the football field, Joe now rules LA's sleaziest clubs, drinking himself into oblivion with a dubious circle of friends known for drug abuse and other illegal activities.  
  
Seen in the company of a different woman every night, some high-class models, others strippers from Sunset Boulevard, Joe doesn't seem to care who he takes home once he is finally ejected from his favourite joints in the early hours. He is known to regularly indulge in the taking of cocaine, marijuana and ecstasy and is often so rowdy that even the most hardcore clubs have to eject him.  
  
Once a young man who had it all, a star when most kids were still worrying about hormones and acne, Joe is clearly no longer the hero worshipped by so many. The golden boy image is gone and Joe is doing little to earn it back. Many of his old friends refuse to have anything to do with him, fearful of getting in the way of his destroying barrage of self- destruction...'  
  
Laura closed her eyes in distress and handed the magazine back to Chet.  
  
"You know what the worst thing is, Chet?" she asked.  
  
Chet silently shook his head.  
  
"Everything they say is true."  
  
"I'm sorry, Laura," Chet said softly.  
  
"You've got nothing to be sorry for. You've made a success of your life. You've had setbacks but you haven't let them plunge you into near delinquency."  
  
"You can't believe what you read in the Enquirer. You know what it's like."  
  
"I know they're right about this one."  
  
"Laura, I don't believe Joe's changed so much. He was a good friend to me and I like to think he still is."  
  
"When was the last time he spoke to you, Chet?"  
  
Chet shrugged his big shoulders awkwardly, looking away again. "A while ago."  
  
"Years? I bet he didn't even call you when he was still in the NFL."  
  
"He was busy..."  
  
"Too busy to stay in touch with the boy he had gone through school with? You're kidding yourself, Chet."  
  
Chet raised his head to meet her gaze. "I'm willing to stick by Joe, no matter what he's done wrong recently. He was a good guy when I knew him. He can't have changed that much."  
  
"I wish I could believe that."  
  
"He's still your son, Laura. Don't you care about him anymore?"  
  
"Of course I care about him. I still love him with all my heart, but every time I hear something about him, it just hurts me even more."  
  
"He'll calm down eventually."  
  
"I don't know if he will, Chet."  
  
"You can't give up on him. You, Fenton and Frank are the only people he can trust now."  
  
"He hasn't called us in months. What sort of trust is that?"  
  
Chet shrugged helplessly. "I wish I could tell you." He patted her hand. "I'm sorry. I've gotta get back to the restaurant."  
  
"Don't worry about Joe, Chet. I do enough of that for everyone."  
  
Chet slid down his stool. "You deserve better treatment, Laura."  
  
Laura smiled sadly.  
  
"I just deserve my son back. And that's the only thing I want."  
  
X X X  
  
In New York, as Joe lay passed out on the couch, Frank drank black coffee in the kitchen. He was still shaking with rage but he couldn't quite ignore that little knot of sadness that had settled in his stomach.  
  
"Dad?" Bailey warily stuck his head round the door.  
  
"Hey, kid."  
  
"Are you still mad?"  
  
"Not at you. Just as Uncle Joe."  
  
"Dad, I like Uncle Joe."  
  
"I know you do, big guy. But what he did last night was wrong and I couldn't let him get away with it."  
  
Bailey shifted uneasily. "Can I get some cereal?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
As the boy poured himself a bowl of cornflakes, Frank left the kitchen and strode through to the living room. A thought had just hit him, one that worried him.  
  
Joe didn't stir as Frank picked up his Raiders jacket from where it lay discarded on the floor. Silently praying his suspicions were unfounded, Frank felt around inside the pocket. His heart sank as his fingers touched plastic.  
  
He drew out a small packet containing a millimetre of white powder. Placing it on the table, he reached into the inside pocket. This time, he produced two rolled joints.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Joe," he whispered.  
  
He leant across and shook his brother's shoulder roughly. He practically he had to shake him off the couch before Joe finally stirred.  
  
"What the hell is this?" Frank demanded.  
  
Joe looked at the illegal items through half-closed eyes. "What'd you think it is?" he smirked. "Call yourself a detective."  
  
"You brought drugs into my home?" Frank's voice was dangerous low.  
  
"Well spotted."  
  
"Get up." Frank grabbed his arm and dragged him up. "For fuck's sake, shower and shave. You look like a vagrant."  
  
"So what?" Joe wasn't impressed that he wasn't going to be allowed the day to sleep off his hangover.  
  
"Just do it, Joe! Don't mess with me, I'm not in the mood!" Frank shoved him towards the door. "I'm gonna tell Bailey he's gotta go back to his mom's early."  
  
Joe paused in the doorway, scratching at the stubble that was scattered along the lines of his strong jaw. "Why?"  
  
"Because you and me are taking a trip."  
  
"Where?" Joe was growing tired with 20 Questions. He was tired, hungover and wanted a smoke.  
  
"Home," Frank said simply.  
  
"Home?" Joe echoed. "You gotta be kidding me. I ain't goin' home."  
  
Frank merely pushed past him and went to find his son. Joe leaned his head against the cool wall and sighed harshly.  
  
Home. Bayport. The last place on Earth he wanted to go at that time.  
  
X X X  
  
"You broke Mom's heart when you went back to LA, you know," Frank said as the brothers drove along the freeway in his Chrysler. "She couldn't bear the fact you'd cut yourself off from her."  
  
Joe's eyes were hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses. His face, still deliberately unshaven, was expressionless. "Yeah. And?"  
  
"For God's sake, Joe, you're not a moody kid any more. Why won't you stop acting like one?"  
  
"Don't tell me what to do! I can't believe you're dragging me here!"  
  
"This your goddam parents we're talking about! You should want to see them!"  
  
"Well I don't!" Joe practically screamed. "Why'd you think I haven't seen them for nearly a year? Why'd you think I've never called them?"  
  
"You tell me, Joe, because I can't understand it. I've no idea how you can just ignore your own parents."  
  
"Because they don't want me around any more now I'm a screw-up. They've been disappointed in me since the day I said I wasn't goin' to college. I hadn't lived up to their goddam expectations."  
  
"How can you say that? Joe, Mom and Dad were so proud of you. They told anyone who would listen about what a star you were. They collected every press cutting, every photo, every magazine article, taped every game and TV appearance. People only had to mention your name and their whole world lit up."  
  
"Bullshit! I could never match up to you, Frank. You were the one who achieved everything they wanted for you."  
  
"All they ever wanted was for you to be happy. They love you more than life itself. You haven't seen that while you've been busy self- destructing. I've been the one who's had to watch Mom cry her eyes out because you hadn't returned her calls."  
  
"I haven't done all this to hurt Mom, you know. I just can't cope with trying to keep anyone else happy right now, Frank. I've got my own problems to sort out."  
  
"Is it too much to ask for you to take a moment to pick up the phone once a week?"  
  
"I'm a busy guy."  
  
"Don't start the attitude again, Joe. Yes, you've lost football, but you've still got your family. Do you want to lose them as well?"  
  
"Maybe I already have."  
  
"Now that is bullshit. Mom and Dad aren't gonna let you drift away like this, Joe. They're your parents and you're their son."  
  
"Then why does it feel like we're strangers?" Joe shook his head. "Pull off here, will you? I gotta get some smokes."  
  
Frank sighed in exasperation but turned off the freeway, pulling into a petrol station forecourt. Joe got out of the car without a word, striding towards the shop. He returned five minutes later with a carton of Marlboro, a can of Bud and the New York Post, one of the city's most scurrilous tabloid newspapers.  
  
"You're drinking at 11am?" Frank demanded.  
  
Joe took a long draught from the can. "Best cure for a hangover."  
  
Frank shook his head in disbelief. He slid the keys back into the ignition as Joe leant back in his seat and opened the Post.  
  
"Holy shit!"  
  
Frank stopped, his hand about to start the engine. "What?"  
  
"Oh Jesus, check this out." Joe thrust the paper at his brother. "I don't believe it."  
  
Frank looked down at Page 2 and found a photo of his brother grinning up at him from his last official NFL roster picture. He immediately knew it wasn't going to a piece showing Joe in a good light. He looked to the headline: 'Joe – From Hero To Zero.' Underneath was written: "NFL's stud's downfall takes another dive'. With some trepidation, he began to read the article.  
  
'Former NFL All-Star Joe Hardy was literally caught with his pants down in the South Bronx in the early hours of Sunday morning. Joe spent the night partying and drinking in the notorious Panther club, renowned for its illegal activities, before stumbling inebriated down a dank alleyway for sex with a nineteen-year-old stripper, according to the club's owner.  
  
This is just the latest incident in the 27 year old's fall from glory, culminating from his forced retirement from the NFL a year ago, since which Joe's wild lifestyle has been getting increasingly out of control. It is rumoured he has come to New York after proving too rowdy even for the LA party scene, in which he has been a constant unruly figure...'  
  
Frank didn't want to read any more. He threw the paper back at his brother.  
  
"Way to go, Joe. That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Go out, get drunk, get high and have sex with the first attractive woman you set eyes on."  
  
"Who made you a goddam preacher?"  
  
"You don't even care, do you?"  
  
Joe shrugged. "Ain't the first story like that there's been about me. And it sure as hell ain't gonna be the last."  
  
"Well at least you can't sink much lower," Frank muttered.  
  
Joe threw back his head and laughed without humour.  
  
"Man, you don't know what I can do."  
  
X X X  
  
It took a long time for Joe to reach out and push his finger against the doorbell. He didn't feel as if he even had the strength to press it in. When he heard the footsteps approaching the door inside, he nearly turned and ran. He probably would have if Frank hadn't been standing right behind him.  
  
After what felt like an infinity, the door was pulled open. Joe found himself looking into his mother's eyes for the first time in months. He opened his mouth but no words came out.  
  
"Oh my God." Laura Hardy looked as if she hardly dared believe it. "Joe?"  
  
Joe shifted uncomfortably. "Hey, Mom."  
  
Laura's eyes filled with tears. For a minute, she seemed unsure of what to do. Then she threw her arms round Joe's neck, only just able to reach, and hugged him as if she never wanted to let him. Joe hesitated, then his muscular arms held his mother close against his solid chest.  
  
"Joey," Laura whispered. "You came home."  
  
She stepped back and swallowed hard, trying to regain her emotions. Her hand reached out and grasped Joe's.  
  
"You and I have got a lot of talking to do, Joseph Hardy." 


	7. The Place He Once Called Home

CHAPTER 7 – THE PLACE HE ONCE CALLED HOME

Laura Hardy could barely keep her tears from streaming down her face as she sat opposite the stranger that had once been her son. Joe was barely recognisable as the laidback, happy-go-lucky teenager with the world at his feet. His beautiful blue eyes, usually full of life, were dark with attitude. When he smiled, it wasn't his usual devilish grin but an arrogant smirk. He looked like a dropout with his uncut hair and heavy stubble.

"What's happened to you, Joe?" she whispered.

Joe shrugged his huge shoulders carelessly. "This is me now."

"I don't believe that."

"Look, I'm only here because Frank wouldn't leave me the hell alone until I came. Don't start on me, OK?"

"You're my son, Joe. What do you expect me to do, let you waste your life in that godforsaken city?"

"It's my choice, Mom, not yours."

"That's where you're wrong. We care about you; we love you. Do you think we're just going to let you go like that?"

"There's nothing you can do about it," Joe said sharply. "Don't you get it, Mom? You're too late."

The drops of salty liquid began to fall from Laura's eyes. "Do you think I'd ever give up on my son, Joe? I will never do that. I don't care how long it takes or how much you hate it, I'm going to get my boy back."

"Don't waste your time." Joe pushed himself to his feet. "Go find some other poor bastard to save. Someone who wants to be saved."

"You prick, Joe," Frank growled, heartbroken at seeing his mother's tears.

Joe spun round to face him. "You can shut the hell up as well, Mr Perfect! Why don't you go back to the city and free some gang kids? Then you can stop interfering in my life!" He strode to the door.

"Where're you going?" Frank yelled after him.

"I don't know."

Frank scrambled up to chase after his brother but Laura grabbed his arm before he could move.

"Don't, Frank," she whispered.

"I can't let him get away with upsetting you like that!"

"It doesn't matter about me. Joe's the important one right now."

"No, Mom, that's exactly what he thinks. That he's the only one that matters. He needs to realise the world doesn't revolve around him, that other people have problems as well."

Laura wiped her eyes. "I don't care, Frank. All I want is my little boy back. It doesn't matter what he's become, as long as I know he's safe."

Frank reached out and pulled her into his arms. "It's not too late, Mom," he whispered.

He tried to deny the fact his heart was telling him otherwise.

X X X

It had been a long time since Joe had walked the streets of Bayport. He couldn't help but feel a stab of emotion as he saw the places of his childhood, where he had grown up as he'd hung out with Frank and the others. The park, the river, the burger bar, the ice cream parlour. He couldn't stop himself remembering the good times he'd had in Bayport. He'd had a good childhood, Joe realised, assaulted by the memories. Hell, he'd had a good life. He'd been almost... blessed

After a while, he had only one place left that he hadn't seen. The place that had represented his growth and development; that had set him on the road to greatness. It wasn't its fault that Joe had strayed from that road. He knew he had to go there.

The football field hadn't changed. Everything was so familiar and, for a minute, Joe was overwhelmed by the memories of the nights he had spent out on that field with the Bayport High Tigers. That field was the place he had first become a star, the first place he had experienced adulation and success. It was deserted now; the football team would still be in class. Joe knew if he went into the locker room, he would see his picture of the Wall of Fame. The greatest player Bayport had ever known. His photo would always hang there, a time when he'd had the world at his feet. The young players would see it every time they entered the locker room. They would talk about him as they dressed.

"Joe Hardy? Yeah, my brother knew him. Bayport's never gonna have another player as good as Joe."

"He got every wide receiver record in the state. The guy's a legend."

"He was the best player in the NFL at one time. He couldn't do a damn thing wrong."

Then someone would say, "Wonder what he's doing now."

And the team would run out onto the field for practice and forget that Joe Hardy ever existed, until the next time they saw his picture. That was all he was to them now, a photo on a wall, a fallen legend. They probably wouldn't recognise him if they saw him in the street.

Digging his hands deep into his pockets, Joe climbed the familiar bleachers. Every Friday night of senior year, he and his football friends would go sit up there with a case of beer and relive their greatest football memories. They would talk all night about the thing that mattered most to them. Joe had loved those nights.

He sat down in the spot he'd always occupied. As he gazed down onto the field, he could almost see the team he had played with. See himself standing tall in the midst of them, hear the crowd yell out his name.

"Joe?"

He jumped on hearing the male voice and looked up sharply. At first, he didn't recognise the stocky young man with the blond crew cut. He wore a Bayport Tigers letterman jacket, the same jacket that Joe had lost long ago. Joe wished he were wearing his too. The guy was muscular but nowhere near as big as Joe, not as powerful. Not as tall either.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" the guy asked with a smile.

Finally, it hit Joe and he looked in disbelief at his former best friend.

"Biff?"

Biff Hooper grinned, the wide, laidback grin that Joe had once known so well. "How you doing, man?" He sat down beside Joe. "You're the last person I expected to find sitting on my bleachers."

"Your bleachers?"

"Yeah. I'm coaching varsity now." Biff tugged on the breast of his jacket and Joe saw the word Coach sewn on it.

"Wow." He shook his head. "That's pretty cool, Biff."

"Yeah, it's a great job." Biff dealt Joe a gentle punch to the arm. "What're you doing back here, Joe?"

"Frank dragged me back. Said I had to see the parents." Joe looked heavenwards. "My brother was always full of great ideas."

"Think maybe he was right?" Biff asked carefully.

"Don't you start."

"OK. But I was actually wondering why you came back to school."

Joe shrugged. "Guess I felt I had to. I owe a lot to this place. A lot of stuff happened here."

"It feels good coming back, doesn't it?" Biff smiled. "I used to stop by every time I came home for vacations. Sit up here and remember the good times. There were plenty of them, right?"

"Yeah," Joe admitted. "There were."

Biff pulled off his baseball cap and turned it awkwardly in his hands. "I've seen you in the newspapers, man. They ain't saying good stuff about you."

"They never do now."

"It's torn your mom apart, Joe. She hates reading that shit about you, but she can't get away from it. Every time she seems to open a newspaper, there's an article about you or a photo of you falling outta a strip club or something."

"Think I don't know that?"

"I don't think you know what you're doing to Laura's heart. It's all right cutting yourself off in LA, doing what you want, but you've forgotten there're people here who love you and care about you. And you're hurting them, Joe."

"Biff, leave it, OK?"

"I can't. I have to tell you while I got the chance. Shit, Joe, you could take a bad Ecstasy tablet tomorrow night and end up dead in an alleyway. I gotta tell you the truth before it's too late."

"I'm not gonna die, Biff."

"How do you know? Guys living your kinda lifestyle die every day." Biff pinched the peak of his cap. "You can't keep hiding from reality, Joe. I know how much it hurt when you had to quit the NFL, but you gotta accept it. It happened and you gotta move on from it."

"How can I? It shouldn't have happened, Biff. I didn't deserve it."

"A lot of people don't deserve what happens to them. But they pick up the pieces and get on with their lives."

Joe dropped his head into his hands. "Football was the only thing I ever wanted," he whispered. "I don't know what to do without it."

"But you got so much going for you, Joe! Yes, you were unbelievably good at football, but you got other talents. There're so many things you're good at!" Biff gripped his arm. "Look at yourself. You're fit, you're good-looking, you're strong. You got a hell of a lot going for you."

"But nothing's ever gonna live up to football."

"Maybe not, but you can still find a life that you can enjoy. And don't tell me you enjoy what you're doing now, because that isn't a life."

Joe looked up slowly. "I never meant for it to turn out like this, Biff."

"I know you didn't." Biff threw an arm round his shoulders. "Look, Joe, you're like a brother to me. I love you, man. I can't stand to see you like this. You gotta take control."

"How can I do that?"

"You have a fantastic family who thinks the world of you. They want to help you so bad. If you let them, you're taking the first step."

Joe swallowed hard. "I guess I've just been too proud."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Biff grinned. "But you can't be trapped by pride forever. You know that."

Joe nodded, looking into his friend's eyes for the first time. "Thanks, Biff," he whispered.

Biff smiled and threw an arm round Joe's shoulders. They hugged tight, like they had after every football game. Biff slapped his friend softly on the back.

"Time to come home, Joe," he said.

X X X

Joe deliberately took his time walking home, needing the chance to get his head together. The emotions whirling around inside him were threatening to overwhelm him, and several times he craved to be back in LA. All he wanted was a beer and a joint while hanging out with Rick and Jake. Then he remembered, even if he went back to LA, he couldn't hang out with Rick and Jake for a long time.

Remembering the downfall of the two cops was enough to spur him on and he made it home. The second he walked through the front door, he found himself face-to-face with his father. He was taken-aback. Fenton looked old. His hair was grey, his face lined, his intelligent eyes tired. Joe realised just how long it had been since he'd seen his father.

"Dad," he said awkwardly.

Father and son looked at each other for a long minute. Then Fenton stepped forward and grabbed Joe in a hard hug. Joe let out a long breath, allowing his tense muscles to relax.

"Good to see you, son," Fenton whispered.

"You too, Dad."

Fenton squeezed Joe's big shoulders. "Come on through to the kitchen. Your mom's made something to eat."

Joe followed his father through to the kitchen. Frank was sitting at the table with a sandwich and a packet of potato chips. He looked expressionlessly at his brother and carried on eating.

"Here, Joe, get some good food in you." Laura handed her youngest son a plate.

Joe forced a smile and accepted it. "Thanks, Mom."

"I'd forgotten how big you are," Fenton said, trying to sound jovial but not quite managing. "It looked like a giant was walking through the door."

Joe smiled again but didn't know what to say in response. He joined Frank at the table.

"Where did you go?" Laura asked gently.

"School. The football field." Joe took a bite of sandwich. His mother produced amazing food but with his unease, it tasted like cardboard. He had to swallow hard. "I saw Biff."

"He's done well for himself," Frank said pointedly.

Joe looked down at his plate and said nothing. Laura and Fenton joined the boys and they ate in silence. Joe picked at his food, hating the quiet. He associated quiet with tension now and he could never be comfortable with it.

"OK, Joe." Finally, Fenton looked up at his son. His voice was gentle. "Will you tell us what you're planning on doing now?"

"I don't know, Dad," Joe said quietly.

"Are you going to go back to LA?"

"I don't want to."

"Good." Fenton played with a leftover chip. "Son, I have to ask you. Have you got any drugs with you?"

Joe hung his head, hating himself for allowing his parents to see him as a drug taker. He'd never once thought about them as he'd laughed at the newspaper reports of his drug taking.

"Joe," Fenton said gently. "If you have, you can tell me. I'm not gonna get Frank to arrest you or anything. Do you have drugs on you?"

"No sir," Joe whispered.

"Promise me you haven't, Joe." Laura reached out to take his hand.

He looked into her eyes. "I haven't, Mom. I promise."

He saw her sigh in relief and her hand squeezed his.

"You need to make some decisions now, Joe," Fenton said.

"I know."

"We want to help you, Joe." Laura brushed his hair back from his face, like she had when he was a boy. "You just need to let us. We promise we won't judge you or preach to you. We just want to give you support."

Joe felt a lump rising in his throat and he realised he was on the verge of tears. "Thanks, Mom," he whispered.

Laura held him tight as he rested his head on her shoulder and finally allowed himself to cry. "Welcome home, baby."

Joe finally allowed himself to relax, safe once again with his family. How could he have thought they wouldn't want him back? How could he have been so stupid?

"You haven't lost everything, Joe," Frank said, grasping his brother's shoulder. "You'll always have us."

For the first time in a long while, Joe realised just how true that was.

EPILOGUE

Bailey turned eight not long after Joe's return and began playing semi-contact football. He showed immediate aptitude and was named quarterback for the Under 9s team. He continues to do well in his studies and also has places on the basketball, baseball, swimming and soccer teams for his grade. He dreams of playing in the NFL.

Biff Hooper accepted a job as Head Coach of the football team at Emerson, a junior college in Illinois. During his time back in Bayport, he helped guide the varsity team to the state championship. He hopes to sign for a Division 1 school within the next couple of years.

Chet Morton hired a manager for his Bayport restaurant and made the move to Washington, DC. There, he opened two new restaurants and managed to attract a Michelin starred head chef. He doesn't plan to stop there.

Frank returned to New York and two months later received promotion to Lieutenant on the Homicide Squad. He became the youngest member of the NYPD to hold the rank. He was instrumental in the takedown of a major Mafia family and gained a Governor's award for his work in gang-related murders. He has now ensured Bailey spends every weekend with him.

Joe stayed with his parents for several months, struggling to break free from his lifestyle of alcohol, drugs and casual sex. Having finally got himself back on track, he joined the US Marines and was assigned to the Military Police, based in Virginia. He served in Korea, Iraq, Kosovo, The Congo and Bosnia and is now based in San Diego. He regularly returns to stay with both his parents and his brother.

Now more than ever before, the Hardy brothers know just how strong the ties of blood are. And they know that no matter what happens, the bonds will never be broken.

END


End file.
